


In which Tardif and Damian navigate feelings

by MnM_ov_doom



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Damian is a well of patience, M/M, Tardif is secretly a softie, brute idiots bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom
Summary: A vicious flagellant and a hulking bounty hunter are quite the unlikely duo, but they can benefit from each other's company.
Relationships: Bounty Hunter/Flagellant
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	In which Tardif and Damian navigate feelings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carpe Natem (Demeanor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/gifts).



> This is a present for the ever patient Carpe Natem, for indulging me on Tardif and ponies.
> 
> And now I shall leave this here with absolutely no context.

Their arrangement seemed good enough – not that any of them would say it aloud. Damian got a body-guard and Tardif… Tardif got a body-guard as well. Protection in exchange for protection, with solemn promises of keeping out of each other’s business. It was not sharing the burden, and it was not splitting profit. 

It was… convenient enough. 

Of course, Damian had not expected Tardif to have a house. Certainly, travelling the land conducting his dirty business asked for freedom of movement.

Damian had also not expected Tardif to have _ponies_ (“My palfrey and my pack-horse, you idiot!”) and the first time he followed Tardif into his little campsite just outside the village, he was seized by a fit of laughter like he hadn’t in _years_. The fact that Tardif’s ‘warhorse’ had its tail and mane carefully braided had kept Damian wheezing for hours under Tardif’s disapproving glare.

Time did little to accustom Damian to the sight of Tardif, that hulking bounty hunter, perched atop the palfrey, a sturdy little bay thing whose big head barely reached Tardif’s chest (how Tardif did not drag his feet on the ground was a mystery most intriguing). Time also did nothing to convince Damian to ride the pack-horse, yet another sturdy little thing, but golden with black hairs among its light mane and tail. But time did allow Damian to start appreciating the sight of Tardif on the bigger horse, the seal brown with two white feet, not too tall, but still a brick wall like its’ master. 

Damian was never particularly interested in horses. There had been the big draught ones in his village, and as a kid, he had found the monstrous horses kind enough, for they had always let him pet them. But horses were for farmers and noblemen and knights, and though the Light held them in the pantheon of courageous companions, horses were none of a flagellant’s business. 

Yet again, flagellants probably did not team up with brute mercenaries and their entourage of ponies. And if they did, they certainly would not volunteer to help with the horses.

But Damian happened to be a very charitable, selfless man.

And that is why Damian is holding the reins and lead ropes of three nervous animals, under the freezing pelting rain, while Tardif is negotiating their accommodations for the night at the local inn. The palfrey, Executioner, paws at the ground insistently; the pack-horse, Flashbang, snorts; the courser, Hunter, shifts its weight.

“Yes, yes, but you don’t hear me complain, do you?” Damian grunts at the horses – a habit he caught from Tardif, who can be surprisingly talkative around them. 

Finally, Tardif emerges from the main doorway of the inn and strides to Damian and the horses:

“Got it,” he announces unceremoniously and snatches the reins and lead ropes from Damian’s hands. He walks around the building, to take the horses into the stable, and though Damian could perfectly go ahead into their room, he follows to help Tardif with the horses.

Lies, blatant lies.

He follows to watch Tardif pamper his ponies and brick wall of a horse. It’s a bit of a guilty pleasure to watch the brute coo at the ponies and brush the horse like he wants to turn it into a mirror. 

Of course, Damian’s interest is purely practical. Collecting blackmail material, in case he needs to reason with Tardif. Remind himself this foul sinner is not such a rotten apple. Damian by no means is fascinated by a softer, gentler side that mastodon clad in mail hides from the world. 

_And, Light forbid, by no means is Damian jealous of two sturdy ponies and one bulky horse._

As expected with weather like that, the inn is full and accordingly so are the stables. Horses of varying qualities, mules, donkeys, perhaps a mare judging by how Hunter perks up as it walks by a stall where an elegant golden mount looks bored out of its’ mind – it earns a sympathetic pat from Damian, who then proceeds to follow Tardif along the corridor, to the last vacant stall. 

It’s not the first time – nor will it be the last time – that Tardif’s four-legged company must share quarters. Hunter walks in the stall first, followed by Executioner, and finally Flashbang. Damian approaches and stands outside the stall with crossed arms, watching as Tardif busies himself with unsaddling and unpacking.

As expected, Damian’s flail comes flying at his face. Damian catches it easily, one-handed. (It is NOT like he’s letting a pack-horse carry his flail. But if Damian is going to hold three horses, then someone has to hold his flail for him.)

“You’re a lousy squire,” Tardif grunts, hanging three headpieces on a hook just outside the stall door:

“You’re not even a knight, so quit your whining,” Damian grunts in return. The bags and satchels strapped to the surcingle fly at his face, and Damian steps back to easily catch it with both arms. Once Tardif leaves the two saddles on the stall door, Damian retributes his kindness by throwing the hoof pick at his head. 

Like always, Tardif catches it easily.

* * *

As a flagellant, Damian has the right to be sheltered in whatever religious building there is at his current location. But he never exerts his right, because just as his peers despise him for his interpretation of faith and for their misunderstanding of the full extent of his powers, Damian despises them too for their ignorance. 

Inns and anything more comfortable than the ground outside at the mercy of the weather are not Damian’s preferred locations, because of the _comforts_ such places provide. Unfitting for his holy person and offensive for his sacred burden. Early in this arrangement, Tardif slept in the comfort of inns or in his tent, while Damian stayed outside on the cobble stones or on the grass with the horses. But, as Damian came to discover, Tardif had a thing (quite similar to Damian, actually) to get in fights – except that Damian broke (breaks) many a jaw to quieten an unruly audience, whereas Tardif was (is) a bully.

And since Damian is trying to save the bounty hunter’s soul, he might as well make a proper job and keep the bounty hunter’s arse safe as well.

“That’s enough,” Damian sighs patiently and pries the empty pint from Tardif’s hands, before the absolute idiot calls for a servant again and demands a refill. The refectory is bursting at the seams and if Tardif keeps drowning pint after pint, he’ll try to start a fight with anyone who looks as shady as he does under the claims that he does not like concurrence. 

“Give it back, you holy dung!” Tardif grunts and tries to retrieve it from across the table. Damian, unimpressed by his clawing at the tabletop and attempted kicks under the table, just hands the pint to a servant and tells him to ignore his companion. 

At the sight of his pint leaving to never return, Tardif clenches his fists and glowers daggers at Damian. Not that Damian can see his face, that with Tardif always keeping his face concealed in public. Damian just knows Tardif is glowering. In response, Damian cocks an eyebrow – not that Tardif will see it, because Damian, too, keeps his face concealed.

His peculiar appearance still gives him away, and wherever the duo goes, there is much staring. 

Tonight, judging by how a man stuffed in a gambeson too tight for him wobbles towards their table with an overflowing pint, Damian supposes there will be much commentary, too.

“Uh, what’s this?” the man snickers, landing a heavy hand on the table and gulping down his beer. “Your kind… usually stays outside in the filth,” He waves a finger at Damian. Tardif snorts:

“You pathetic twit, shut up before he starts preaching…”

Unfortunately, the visitor proceeds to taunt Damian and flagellants and the Light. More voices join the choir, a few men approach and even two girls of dubious virtue are watching from the staircase that leads to the second floor.

But a sudden, shocked silence takes over the refectory when Damian, without even standing up from his stool, lands an uppercut on the taunting man, who spins on himself and flops unconscious on the floor:

“Only in pain can one find enlightenment,” Damian begins, finally standing up. He grabs his flail from the table and spreads his arms, to exhibit his scars and open wounds. “Outside or indoors, the filth is everywhere. It is the ignorance of the faith, the vice that commands you all to come here and indulge in sin, the-“

“Hey, hey…” Tardif grunts, standing up as well. “I couldn’t have my beer, so you can’t have your preaching.”

“You can’t compare sponging alcohol with sharing wisdom,” Damian retorts, wondering why he still wastes time trying to reason with Tardif, of all people. 

“The flagellant’s with you??” an aging patron in fine clothes asks from across the refectory. “Take that lunatic out of here!” A renewed – quieter – choir raises, demanding that the flagellant be removed from the premises. 

Usually, Damian can only be removed by force, such is his commitment to the salvation of souls. But it happens that over the last year, Damian got himself one very tricky and demanding soul in the shape of Tardif, who is striding towards the fine patron. Beating an old man will not aid the salvation of Tardif’s soul, whose hands are already stained with the blood of so many lives whose value is so easily diminished for money. For the greater good – the salvation of this particularly dark, foul, sour, stubborn, idiot, brutish soul – Damian will postpone his preaching and remove himself from the refectory.

With Tardif in tow, of course. 

Since the inn is full, Tardif only got them (somehow, Damian prefers not to ask because at least this way the horses are comfortable) a room. The tiniest, most cramped, cheapest room in the coldest wing of the inn, with a small dirty window facing the empty market square. The humble bed and the bags and satchels on the uneven wooden floor almost take up the whole space, and Damian and Tardif fumble and curse each other in order to squeeze themselves through the door and stand in the room. 

Unceremoniously, Tardif flops face down on the bed, that creaks ominously and sags just a little under the weight. 

“Thought you said you preferred to abstain before your dirty work,” Damian chastises, leaving his flail, collar, and cowl near the luggage and turning to face the sorry figure on the bed. 

“A man can only abstain so much, but I start doubting you’re a man…” Tardif’s reply comes muffled, from his face pressed against the mattress. Damian rolls his eyes, walks up to him and pulls out Tardif’s headgear:

“Have you not established I’m holy dung?” He manoeuvres Tardif to lie on his side, because if there’s one valuable thing that Damian learned about Tardif, is that the armoured mastodon snores if not lying on his side. And there is only so much a flagellant can take. 

Whatever Tardif growls in response, is muted by a thunder outside. Nervous neighing and drunken laughter reach their ears immediately after, and Damian approaches the window to look outside and frown: it’s pitch black and it will probably keep raining the next day, which means the only souls within reach will be those of the homeless. That is a very unsatisfactory number of souls, because Damian must save them all. The burden cannot be shared.

“You said your murder victim is a merchant?” Damian asks, chuckling. “I don’t think she’ll show up tomorrow, not with this weather,” No reply, and Damian glances over his shoulder. 

Tardif is already asleep, his side rising and falling gently. Damian snorts and shakes his head at the bounty hunter, fondly: and to think Tardif is the one that goes around sitting on his _pony_. Moving as silently as possible, Damian approaches the bed, pulls the blanket and linens from under the mattress and folds them over Tardif:

“I should let you freeze overnight, maybe that would teach you to use a bed,” Damian mutters, and presses the back of his fingers to Tardif’s cheek, gently. “But then I’d have to put up with your feverish whining. You’re a handful, Tardif…”

* * *

Eventually, their wandering takes them to the Hamlet. 

Tardif should have accepted Executioner’s refusal to proceed through the Old Road, and he should have reasoned that there might a reason why Flashbang and Hunter were rebelling against Damian’s lead. Instead, he simply dismounted, took the reins and lead ropes of all his animals and proceeded. 

That sad little place certainly was not worthy of his animals – not a single spot of green for them to graze! Besides, there were too many mercenaries, and Tardif did not like to split his profits, nor to have ‘colleagues’ – his pet flagellant was enough a nuisance. 

But Damian was delighted with so many rotten souls in dire need of saving, and ecstatic at the tales of corrupted creatures that needed destruction. Some religious boobery about Light and Darkness that Damian told him once, while stitching Tardif under the campfire light.

Tardif didn’t want to stay, but he also wouldn’t let that fool of a flagellant to stay there alone and maim himself when there seemed to be other things much more deserving of that horrid flail. Besides, the price the owner of that wretched place was willing to pay could afford hay and rations.

“I must ask…” Junia begins one day, interrupting Tardif’s brooding contemplation of his empty pint. “… why was a man like you travelling with a flagellant?”

Junia seemingly missed every time Damian landed a blow on the creatures that plague the area. She also probably never saw Damian reciting the verses to Executioner, or calling out Hunter on his greed for bedding, or styling Flashbang’s mane while preaching about humility:

“He latched on to me about saving my soul and I couldn’t get rid of him. Believe me, I’ve tried,” Tardif grunts. He tried very hard. He made Damian’s life as comfortable as possible by forcing him to eat (Tardif was the one paying for logistics and accommodations, he could do whatever it pleased him!), by forcing him to stay in inns and to share the tent (if Damian caught a cold it would only slow down Tardif, isn’t that right?), by forcing Damian to let him tend to his wounds (Damian wouldn’t be useful backup if he died of infection, obviously) and by trying to get him to ride Flashbang instead of walking like a peasant. “But that idiot is stubborn…”

“It simply surprises me that… you tolerate him,” Junia proceeds, looking around the tavern to be sure Damian isn’t there to hear her talk behind his back. 

“Don’t be so surprised, Sister. You don’t tolerate him either,” Tardif grunts and stands up to leave. That is a recurrent question around the Hamlet, one asked countless times and that Tardif is tired of. 

He tolerates Damian because that damn holy boulder is convenient. He has Tardif’s back, he just rolls his eyes when Tardif lashes out at him, he patches up Tardif with care and he makes keeping Tardif’s hair neat and proper much easier. Said holy boulder is surprisingly gentle to the horses, too. Not that Tardif is jealous of his horses, no. 

* * *

“I think we should leave this place,” Tardif grunts, looking down at his boots to avoid staring at the tell-tale bandages wrapped tightly around Damian’s torso:

“Something got through that thick skull of yours? I’m impressed…” Damian replies, completely unimpressed. Tardif would snort and have a comeback at the ready, but Damian could’ve died in that expedition. 

He says nothing instead and silence stretches between them.

“Tardif?” Damian eventually calls. His voice is tired and Tardif looks up at him, at his bruised face and split bottom lip. Damian is a goddamn waste: all that muscle and broad shoulders and narrow hips and fleshy bottom lip and blue eyes and blond hair – if he didn’t shave his head – and strong features and-

“I’ve had enough of this place,” Tardif grunts and looks away. The thought that Damian, his only friend, can die a horrible death just because Tardif isn’t there to help… “You stay here and rot away, if you want.”

“Your compassion and willingness to aid those in need are remarkably touching. I weep…”

Tardif glowers. Damian is lucky to be bed-ridden, or Tardif would punch that stupid smile off Damian’s ugly mug. 

Of course, Tardif goes nowhere. For weeks, his life consists of tending to his horses and stay by Damian’s side while he recovers. He makes sure Damian eats, and tends to the flagellant himself because he doesn’t trust the caretakers at the Sanitarium to endure Damian’s tantrums and moods.

“Have you known each other for long? You seem to share a strong camaraderie,” Barristan comments eventually, because Damian, that idiot and weakened fool, wanted to the go the abbey to pray, and that is why Tardif was seen helping him walk. 

“A year or so, I think,” Tardif grunts. “Your missing eye tricks you, grandpa. I tried to dump the flagellant in the abbey, but they didn’t want him either…”

All the prying and nosing irks Tardif. This is why he likes to be on his own. Nobody to ask things. These other mercenaries would be alright – yes, the righteous paragon of virtue, paladin of the faith, sneaky thief Reynauld, too – if only they dropped their damn questions and unrequested remarks about Damian. 

When not tending to or exercising his horses, Tardif wanders the sad little hamlet and trains in the guild. Most times, Damian is with him; when he is alone, he finds himself looking for Damian, because the holy buffoon might get himself in trouble due to his religious gibberish and then it will have to be Tardif putting up with him, because nobody else is up to the task. 

Which is odd, because Damian is one hell of an asset to the expeditions, with the vicious blows he lands and religious curse-magic or whatever that he casts on enemies. Maybe the others fail to see it because they’re not _professionals_ , but Tardif saw it the moment they first met: Damian, raw and powerful and unbridled, bloodthirsty and violent, loyal and reliable like nobody else. Who wouldn’t that by their side?

Tardif sometimes wonders about that, when he drinks too much and unlocks the wrong doors, or when the monsters are too powerful and Damian isn’t there to distract him (the group) with his gibberish. 

Tardif wonders about that now, his body broken and wrapped up in bandages, while Damian, very clearly unaware that he’s being watched, stands on his knees and punishes himself for something he didn’t do. Damian told him once, while Tardif wiped blood off his forehead in a cosy inn room, that flagellants heal others by hurting themselves – Damian was more eloquent, of course:

“I’ve told you I don’t want you to do that, idiot…” Tardif rasps and coughs. Damian doesn’t even deign look up at him, leave alone stop:

“Let me focus, or I’ll knock you out…” the flagellant replies:

“Don’t waste it on me,” The grunt is meant for Tardif alone, but Damian snaps his head up and his flail stops. He has his cowl and collar, but even so Tardif knows the outraged expression Damian is making, and turns his face away, training his eyes on the cracked wall opposite to the bed. A lovely place, this Sanitarium. 

Unsurprisingly, that stubborn idiot of a flagellant materialises before his eyes, and goes as far as sitting on the edge of the bed already too small for Tardif alone.

“Suddenly self-conscious of your sins, bounty hunter?” Damian asks and lowers his cowl, showing a cocked eyebrow. In response, Tardif snorts and looks the other way. 

He’s not a sinner. It’s not a sin to stay alive. The Light probably has its own little adventures when nobody’s watching… But Damian can do better than a brute like him. 

“That’s what I thought. It falls to me to guide you back to the Light,” Damian concludes and reaches out to ruffle through Tardif’s hair. That damn idiot, why is he like this? Unable to resist him, Tardif closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

* * *

Of course, the irresponsible mastodon is already at the tavern, drowning in alcohol. He’s still recovering his strength; if he starts a fight, it won’t end well for him.

Unfortunately, Damian is too late and Tardif is already grappling Dismas – if Damian doesn’t act quick, he’ll soon be grappling Reynauld as well. He shoulders his way through the audience of mercenaries and locals, walks up to the fight and shoves himself between Tardif and Dismas.

“That’s enough. You should be fighting the enemies of the Light; not each other, for you are equal vermin!” Damian chastises, successfully snaking his way into the fray.

He saw Tardif’s fist coming, but he wasn’t quick enough and pain sears from his cheekbone towards his temple, so intense he needs to close his eye for a moment. Another fist hits him on his solar plexus, forcing him to curl in on himself, out of breath. Damian can’t see much because of his cowl, but he can hear the agitation around them. He must put an end to Tardif’s mood, and so lands a punch to Tardif’s concealed jaw that makes the joint snap out of place and sends the hulking bounty hunter stumbling backwards.

A tense, expectant silence fills the room, but while Tardif heaves, Damian marches to him, grabs him by the sleeve and tows him away. Yet something must have left Tardif in a foul mood, because outside he puts up a petty fight again and it takes Damian a great deal of patience to refrain from knocking out Tardif and bodily shove him towards the barracks instead. 

“You are impossible!” Damian growls when _finally_ they reach the barracks, empty so early in the evening and filled by the sickly yellow light from the wrought iron chandelier. He keeps shoving Tardif in the intended direction, almost like what Tardif does to his ponies and horse when he wants them to make room for him. Truly, Tardif is a challenging soul.

But Damian isn’t one to back down, especially for a soul so rotten, bad, violent, generous and kind such as Tardif’s. No matter how much rabid snarling and grunting Tardif growls at him. 

Once they reach Tardif’s cot, Damian forces him to sit down and yanks off Tardif’s headgear. Snarling and grunting stop immediately, and Damian is met with a glower. Tardif’s jaw holds at an awkward angle and the corners of his mouth are moist with spit:

“Touch me and die,” Tardif snarls:

“Fool…” Damian mutters and pushes Tardif’s jaw back to place, a procedure familiar due to past altercations. Tardif flinches and snarls again, but when Damian doesn’t pull his hand away and thumbs away the spit, he leans into the touch. 

Like the sinful brute he is, Tardif indulges in vice to shun his many demons. There was improvement from the moment Damian joined him, but it would be easier for both if Tardif listened to Damian’s wisdom on virtue.

Then again, flagellants are not meant to have an easy task. 

With a defeated grunt, Tardif leans against Damian, burrowing his face in Damian’s stomach. His stubble and warm breath tickle, and Damian moves his hands to card through Tardif’s hair and to scratch at the shaved back of his head.

“Care to tell me why you picked a fight with the thief?” Damian asks patiently, but his response is a grunt. 

Absently, Damian proceeds to drag his blunt nails across Tardif’s scalp. He feels Tardif grabbing his garments at his waist and leave his hands there, like a penitent asking for forgiveness. Damian can forgive him, of course, because Tardif is but a simple fool, scared before the greater things he can’t understand. Tardif is also oddly important for Damian.

Damian knows from experience that Tardif’s outburst is over, and so he carefully frees himself from Tardif’s grip and proceeds to remove his armour. Drunken Tardif is sleepy, and he sways and his eyes close while Damian pulls out his gloves, his pauldrons, his coat of plates, his hauberk and his gambeson, leaving the crimson tunic with Tardif’s native embroidery over his skin. Patiently, Damian manoeuvres Tardif into lying on his side, then pulls off his boots, and finally covers him with a blanket.

For a moment, the flagellant simply stands there, looking down at the sleeping bounty hunter. From all souls across the land, and Damian is selfishly fond of this particular brute. The Light has strange designations, but whatever it takes, Damian is ready to absolve, save, and heal Tardif. He reaches out to run a thumb across Tardif’s bottom lip, then leaves. It is still early, the horses need to eat, and there is much praying to do. 

* * *

Dreaming is unpleasant, most times. Too many faces, too many voices, too many failures, too many monsters, a bloodied body, loneliness. 

A headache throbs in the back of his head when Tardif forces his eyes open with a groan. Grunting and groaning, Tardif pushes himself to a sitting position. His mouth is dry and his throat feels unpleasant. 

But wait, his jaw hurts as well, and so do his knuckles. It all tells Tardif he exchanged blows with Damian – the damn flagellant seems to be fond of punching his jaw out of place…

That makes Tardif snort, desolate. Despite all the pleasure he takes on violence, the last person he wants to turn against is Damian, the only one in the entire land Tardif considers a friend. The other mercenaries laugh from their imaginary high horses, but Tardif knows what _feelings_ are.

And they’re dangerous in his line of work.

And they can kill him in this hellhole. 

Without bothering to put on his armour, Tardif leaves the barracks – some are already up and gone, others still snore – and makes his way into the adjacent, decrepit stable building. He knows Damian gave his horses dinner, but he honestly did not expect to find the flagellant giving them breakfast. Tardif stops by the doorway, watching as Damian, without his collar and cowl and ridiculous spikes, distributes hay among the three occupants of the precarious stable. From where he stands, Tardif can see the bruises on Damian’s solar plexus and on his left cheekbone. 

It’s not that it doesn’t have a certain appeal – it sure looks much better than the gashes on Damian’s back.

But as time goes by, Tardif hates more and more that it’s him putting those bruises on Damian.

Worse, he can’t bring himself to say it. 

“Will you just stand there, or will you make yourself useful and bring the ration?” Damian asks dryly, startling Tardif, who frowns at him:

“You’re bloody bossy for a flagellant,” Tardif complains, but he would be lying if he denies he very much appreciates how Damian can boss and manhandle him. Damian’s gentler side that the ponies and horse expose is somewhat more appreciated.

“You’re bloody helpless for a bounty hunter,” Damian retorts, crossing his arms. That stings, sweetly so, because Tardif prided himself for being a loner but likes Damian’s company too much.

Not that Damian needs to know that. Not that Damian would use the knowledge against him, but some meddling third party would.

Keeping for himself, however, only makes things harder at each expedition. At each blow Damian inflicts on himself. At each narrow escape. At each pint that instead of loosening his tongue, balls his fists. At each bruise that he puts on Damian’s body. At each fight that breaks out between them. 

This time is worse, because Tardif is sober (Damian, that overzealous leviathan, sent his pint flying across the tavern) and still sees Damian surrounded by enemies, cornered away from the group and narrowly escaping not because of Tardif’s prowess, or because of Junia’s stupid beams, or because of Paracelsus’ toxic concoctions, but because Damian’s wounds erupted in blinding Light, killing all the enemies around and nearly killing him too. And now that stupid flagellant, who Tardif thought safe in the Sanitarium, is barely standing on his feet and yet taking Tardif’s blows like he didn’t nearly die hours prior.

The other mercenaries know better than interfering – too much collateral damage, but they do manage to collectively shove Tardif and Damian outside. 

“You’re the bane of my reputation, brute!” Damian roars, like he isn’t the one tossing pints in closed spaces, with little regard for the heads around him. 

“You’re the bane of my existence, flagellant!”

Both stare at each other, panting and bleeding from split lips and broken noses. Tardif’s headgear lies prisoner in the tavern, but Damian must have left his stupid collar and even more stupid cowl at the Sanitarium. 

With a sigh, Damian’s shoulders sag and he sways on his legs. Tardif is immediately by his side and hauls him over a shoulder, hurriedly. He snarls and grunts and growls encouragement and threats as he runs across the village, forgotten about his own sores from the most recent encounter and like Damian didn’t attempt on his ribcage moments before.

When Damian opens his eyes, he’s met with Tardif’s – green and tired. He’s slightly detached from his body, like part of him wants to stay but another wants to go wherever the Light commands, and so he grunts.

Immediately, Tardif’s hand is on his face, cupping his jaw, fingers tracing his lips and small scars scattered around. His touch is gentle, grounding, and Damian is finally able to, gradually, feel the bed he’s lying in, the blanket over his frame, the bandages constricting him, Tardif’s bigger and warm body pressed against him with no armour between them. 

“You just try and die on me again, Damian,” His tone is gentle, the one reserved for his ponies and horse and that Damian so selfishly wished for himself. Tardif’s lips almost brush against Damian’s as he speaks, but instead of repelled by their proximity, Damian melts into it, gradually aware of the pain from his injuries but blissfully distracted by _Tardif_. 

“I didn’t die on you, Tardif,” Damian clarifies in a hoarse voice, though he isn’t very sure of what happened between their petty fight and now. He tries to move his hands, only to realise his arms are folded between their chests, and so his fingers touch Tardif’s chin, strong and rough with stubble. They fit like their bodies were chiseled to be together and, close like they are, their breath mingles. The bounty hunter is worth damnation to achieve salvation, and since the Light led them to this moment, so be it. But… “But I can’t abandon the burden.”

“There’s other burdens out there, you stubborn mule…” Tardif’s tone is quiet and he bumps their foreheads together, brings a hand to cup Damian’s jaw. “I wasn’t passed out when you said I’m a handful.”

Damian is in too much pain, and yet he chuckles and shifts his head a little, just enough to make himself more comfortable on the pillow (or what’s left of it, since Tardif is occupying half of it). If his lips happen to brush Tardif’s when he smiles, it’s pure coincidence:

“Uh, the brick wall is suddenly talkative.”

“Uh, the zealot is suddenly a jester,” Tardif grunts, his hand cupping the back of Damian’s head and his lips touching Damian’s, feather-light. 

Truly, the bounty hunter is a handful. And maybe he is right. There are more damned souls out there, more misery in the world, more faithless hearts and lost minds. He chuckles again, because certainly there is also more profit for Tardif to gain. 

For the time being, however, Damian must stay put. He’s weak and in pain, and so he snuggles impossibly closer to Tardif, who aids him in his quest for warmth and comfort by wrapping an arm around his waist and holding him close.

* * *

Tardif missed travelling and camping. 

He also missed a world without monsters. 

And inns, so much better kept than that damnable tavern.

Who is he lying to? Tardif is simply relieved he convinced Damian to leave that hellhole. Here, in the world of the living, Tardif can keep him safe. Here, where targets are human and mortal, Tardif is no longer afraid of irremediably losing Damian. 

He is bolder, now. Bolder to approach, to hold, to mark. To cradle Damian against his chest and to trail the expanse of his scarred muscles with wanting lips, to intertwine their fingers and thrust gently. There is a side of Tardif that is nurturing and kind, so unlike himself that he never wanted to fully acknowledge it. 

How ironic that a lunatic that flails himself for piety or whatever dragged it out of him… Then again, Damian is nurturing and kind on his own, twisted way. He shows it brutally, wears it on his sleeve for all to see – unlike Tardif, who hides. 

Tardif thinks about it sometimes, when Damian returns from preaching and he is just arrived from a mission:

“Of all people, and it had to be you,” Tardif grunts, washing dried blood off Damian’s back. Good thing they’re lodged in an inn and there’s hot water available:

“Didn’t hear you complain last night…” Damian retorts, smugness lacing his voice. It earns him a snort, because indeed, how could Tardif complain while deep in the flagellant? He sets aside the cloth he used to clean the cuts on Damian’s back and bends forward, to place a kiss between Damian’s shoulder blades. His eyes flutter closed as he proceeds to nuzzle Damian’s neck, then the back of his head, then an ear that he eventually catches with his lips.

The flagellant withstands the brutality of his whip, and the blows of petty fights that sometimes still break between them – they’re too hot-headed, too eager, too dominant – and the strikes of the occasional simpleton who thinks he can beat that one flagellant for amusement. To all that Damian laughs and stands strong, only to be brought down, compliant and meek, with soft kisses and gentle touches. 

Damian sometimes says it weighs on the burden. Whatever, Tardif is happy to provide.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your time.  
> Feedback is appreciated and treasured!


End file.
